


burst & shatter

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Desperation, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Enemas, Extremely Dubious Consent, Intersex Loki (Marvel), M/M, Makeup, Painplay, Praise Kink, Sakaar Trash Party, Stomach Bulge, Temperature Play, Trans Loki (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 03:58:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14926712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: The Grandmaster insists that he needs to get Loki ready - for what exactly, Loki isn't sure. Getting him ready, however, includes one of the few acts Loki's never partaken in, and would rather have avoided.





	burst & shatter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/gifts).



> Specifically inspired by [this post.](http://veliseraptor.tumblr.com/post/168011157340/what-really-kinky-shit-would-you-be-interested-in)

“Listen, honey,” the Grandmaster says, his voice soft and warm, and immediately, fear makes itself known within him. Loki feels his innards freeze at the gentleness in the Grandmaster’s tone, at the featherlight touch of his gloriously warm hands against the side of Loki’s jaw, and he bites his lip to keep from whimpering. It is as yet early in the day, and Loki wishes he had ordered his lunch to his rooms instead of straying out into one of Sakaar’s beautiful dining halls. Ordinarily, the Grandmaster isn’t _here_ at this hour, entertaining some other of his hobbies, like sleeping, but—

It is plain that the Grandmaster is here simply to seek Loki out, and Loki wonders what torture he could possibly have devised, that would inspire him to come directly to Loki. The Grandmaster cares not at all for patience, when it doesn’t suit him.

Despite his fear, Loki’s eyes flutter closed as the Grandmaster’s thumb dances hot and pleasant over his chin, teasing over the white skin there. It oughtn’t feel so _good_ , the Grandmaster’s touch, oughtn’t intoxicate him so when he knows that it so often precipitates great pain, when the Grandmaster will torture him upon a whim, but—

 _You crave subjugation_ , whispers a voice in his ear, echoing within him, and no, _no—_ Loki is so focused on his inner turmoil that he doesn’t actually hear what the Grandmaster says. He only hears the end of the sentence, hears the Grandmaster finishing with, “—Right?”

“Right,” Loki echoes obediently. The Grandmaster _smiles_ , the expression indulgent, and he pats Loki’s cheek.

“ _Excellent_ , Lo-Lo, that’s—  You’re just, ha, you’re just the _best_. You’re— You know you’re my favourite, right?”

“So you’ve told me, Grandmaster,” Loki murmurs, and the Grandmaster’s grip tightens on his jaw, so tight that Loki feels the bone _creak_ , and he cries out in pain.

“Whaddya mean, uh, whaddya mean like that, sweet thing?” the Grandmaster asks. Despite the agonising vice of his grasp, his tone remains sweet and mild, and the juxtaposition makes Loki – for a wild second – want to burst out laughing, even as his bones threaten to crack beneath the Grandmaster’s hand. “You… What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you,” Loki says hurriedly. “I believe you, Grand— Grandmaster. I merely meant… It’s hard, to…” Norns, what can he _say_? Every word he grasps at flees from his silver tongue, and the Grandmaster clucks his own, looking down at Loki with sympathy shining in the golden ring of his irises, his fingernails digging cruelly into the meat of Loki’s cheek.

“Aw, I get it. I, uh, I really do. Nobody’s ever told you how _good_ you are. How… Pretty.” Good? No. Loki is not good, and no one has told him so – no one not out of their mind. But pretty? People have most _certainly_ told Loki how pretty he is. The word is wrapped up in his apparently _feminine_ features, in the wideness of his hips and the baldness of his chin, in the pinkness of his lips and the depth of his seiðr, and it grates on him, even now…

“No, Grandmaster,” Loki lies. “No one before you.” The Grandmaster releases Loki’s jaw, and Loki slumps in relief, heaving a breath into his lungs, even as the Grandmaster’s hand slides lower, palming over the side of Loki’s neck.

“We’ve got to get you, mmm, nice and clean, first,” the Grandmaster whispers. “Right? Right?”

“Right,” Loki echoes, for a second time, and just like that the Grandmaster is dragging him along toward the Grandmaster’s quarters. As they go, the Grandmaster carelessly unbuttons Loki’s clothes, dropping them aside, and Loki knows better than to protest, letting himself become steadily more naked as they move through the corridors, leaving his clothes behind him in some parody of the Midgardian tale of Hansel and Gretel.

Will he be eaten tonight?

Perhaps.

The Grandmaster draws Loki into his bathroom, which is palatially wide and tiled in shining gold, and Loki reaches out, sliding his hands over the Grandmaster’s chest, feeling the heat of his body, feeling the immense _power_ hidden beneath so deceptive a frame. “Tell me again,” Loki murmurs, his voice sultry, as he looks up at the Grandmaster’s eyes through his eyelashes. The Grandmaster is only two inches or so taller than Loki, but for these purposes he leans in slightly, ducking his chin to emphasise their difference in size. “About tonight.”

The Grandmaster chuckles, dragging his hand through Loki’s hair too roughly to be _anything_ but pleasurable, and Loki groans at the glorious drag upon his scalp. He feels the grease he wears in his hair bubble away like evaporating water, and he closes his eyes as he feels his hair settle in a thick, dark cloud around his shoulders.

“I need you… _Pretty_.”

“Pretty,” Loki repeats, the word acrid on his tongue. The Grandmaster _beams_ , his beatific smile lighting up his face as he pushes Loki back onto an abruptly conjured chair, and Loki watches as a chest creeps across the room on a thousand little legs, dropping itself down before the Grandmaster and opening itself up.

“This is the _Luggage_ ,” the Grandmaster murmurs, with no small amount of affection, and Loki watches as he strokes over the side of the gilded wood. The chest purrs at the touch, and Loki keeps his own hands firmly in his lap. The thing feels _distinctly_ odd – it is a sink of magic, where the natural energy in the air seems not to reach. “I, uh, I picked it up a long time ago…”

He draws out a few cannisters of pigment and some make-up brushes, and Loki feels himself sag in relief. Just paint, for his face… Yes. That’s nothing to be frightened of. Loki raises his chin, and he lets himself relax, lets himself enjoy the warmth of the Grandmaster’s fingers as he rubs primer into Loki’s skin, the lotion pleasantly cool against his flesh.

“You know what I love about you, Lo-Lo?” the Grandmaster asks sweetly.

“My arse?” Loki offers, and the Grandmaster laughs, _genuinely_ laughs. For the barest moment, Loki feels dangerously, completely, at ease. He smiles at his own joke as the Grandmaster leans in, pecking Loki’s lips with a short kiss, and Loki feels his chest tingle with heat.

“Mmm, I, uh, I _do_ love that,” the Grandmaster murmurs, but then he shakes his head, taking up a brush and running it through some light red pigment, beginning to dust it onto Loki’s cheeks. The sensation is far from unpleasant, the way the brush settles gently against his cheeks and highlights the position of the bone there, and Loki inhales, taking in the dry, chalky scent of the make-up. “No, no, kitten, what I, hmm, really love… is how I don’t need foundation. You’ve just got such lovely skin, so clear and clean!”

“Thank you,” Loki says, waiting for the catch. The Grandmaster smiles, showing his teeth.

“I guess that’s the, ha, that’s the benefit of wearing skin that isn’t real in the first place, huh?” There it is. Loki sets his jaw, staying in place for a moment as the Grandmaster tips his chin further up, beginning to dust more pigment against the lines of his jaw. “Why don’t you, mmm, why don’t you put that pretty, ha, that pretty blue skin on display, huh?”

“I will if you will,” Loki murmurs. The brush freezes against Loki’s jaw, and the Grandmaster stares him down. It was a stupid thing to say, a _stupid_ thing— but the Grandmaster’s lips are quirked, and instead of offence, amusement shines from his features.

“ _Aw_ ,” he murmurs, tilting Loki’s face to the side and brushing against the other side. “Guess you got real friendly with Ord when he was visiting a few months back, huh? _Figures_ he’d, mmm, tell me some of my secrets. Did you tell him some of yours?” Ord Zyonz – the Gardener – had only visited Sakaar for a few days, but he had been _fascinating_. The Grandmaster isn’t ordinarily jealous, but he’d certainly been jealous of the time Loki had spent speaking with the other Elder – ever more so when Loki had asked questions about horticulture. It had been strange indeed, seeing Ord and the Grandmaster interact. Loki knows that none of the Elders are truly siblings, and yet the dynamic had been unmistakable.

“As many as I’ve told you, Grandmaster,” Loki murmurs softly.

“Careful, Ki-Ki,” the Grandmaster murmurs, his gaze hardening for a second. “The, uh, the sarcasm is only cute when peppered, mmm, _sparingly_ in conversation.”

“Yes, Grandmaster,” Loki whispers. 

“Careful for this bit, honey,” the Grandmaster says, and Loki is silent as the Grandmaster daubs kohl under his eyes, then begins to paint his eyelashes, brushing them out to be thicker and darker. The scent of the mascara is stronger than that of the dried pigments, being as it is _wet_ , and Loki inhales, taking its chemical tint deep into his lungs. “You like this, huh?”

Is it a trap? Loki doesn’t know. It’s never possible to know.

“Yes,” he says, at length.

“Good _boy_ ,” the Grandmaster purrs, and the patronising lilt to it makes Loki’s stomach do an awful flip. There is nothing stopping him from fleeing – this, Loki knows. There is nothing keeping him bound in this chair he sits in of his own will, naked to his skin, with the Grandmaster painting his skin to be _prettier_.

He could run. He could flee, and he could fight, and he could— But what is the point? The Grandmaster would catch him before he so much as reached the edge of Sakaar City.

When he sees pencil of a lip liner, he parts his lips, and the Grandmaster chuckles as he traces the line of Loki’s lips, drawing them to be bigger, further enhancing the natural cupid’s bow of Loki’s upper lip— Why not just make him shapeshift? Loki doesn’t know. He certainly doesn’t ask.

“Now, honey, I’m, ha, I’m really trusting you here,” the Grandmaster says as he fills in Loki’s lips with a waxy lipstick, and Loki furrows his brow slightly, but he cannot talk, not while the Grandmaster is painting his mouth. “You’d— Golly, you’d _better_ not cry between now and the big event.”

“I won’t,” Loki promises as the lipstick is set aside, and inside him, he feels a storm surge. Why would he cry? Why would he _cry_?

“Good, good,” the Grandmaster murmurs softly. “Up you— Get up, honey, get up. Hands on the side of the bath – that’s a pretty kitten.” It’s undignified. To go from sitting up in a chair to resting with his hands on the edge of the Grandmaster’s ridiculously large bath (fit for twenty people, if not thirty), his backside bared to the room— But then, the contrast is undoubtedly something he’s _meant_ to be aware of. Loki catches a glimpse of his painted face in one of the mirrors on the wall, and he takes in the colours that have been painted onto his features. The highlights of his jaw and cheekbone are darker, in red, but the lipstick and the eyeshadow about his eyes are _blue_ , darkly blue…

Loki hates that he likes it. The Grandmaster will dress Loki in his clothes, will paint Loki in his colours, and Loki not only accepts it, not only _allows_ it – he likes it. Nausea tugs at his insides, and he stares down into the bath’s black bowl, which is stained with glitter, to keep from looking at his own reflection.

“See, we need you _clean_ for this,” the Grandmaster purrs.

“I can clean myself,” Loki offers. “With my seiðr?”

“Mmm, _no_.” A finger slides over Loki’s cunny, which is dry and unprepared, and Loki whimpers, stiffening slightly. It wouldn’t be the first time the Grandmaster had decided to fuck him without giving him time to relax, without letting Loki’s own arousal ease the way. “Such a, _ha_ , such a cute little noise. I just— Golly _gee,_ honey, have I, uh, have I told you lately how much I love this little, mmm, this little quim of yours?”

“Last night was the last time, Grandmaster,” Loki mumbles, feeling humiliation burn on his skin, and the Grandmaster chuckles. The fingers pull away, and then return wet: the Grandmaster circles the pucker of Loki’s back entrance perfunctorily, then two fingers slip right in at once. The burn makes Loki grip tighter at the bath’s edge, groaning quietly as the ring of muscle is breached faster than it ought be.

“Well, I’ll tell you now: I _love_ it. It’s just so… Convenient.” That’s an odd way of putting it. Loki turns his head back, trying to get a glimpse of what the Grandmaster is doing, but the Grandmaster murmurs, “ _Eyes front,”_ and Loki obeys like the _dog_ he is. The Grandmaster’s fingers scissor within him, making Loki grunt, but then they pull back, and—

“What is that?” Loki demands as he feels the end of the pipe slip into him. It’s scarcely an inch wide, but it slips within him with _ease_ , pressing inside, and a flared edge stops its press at the edge of his pucker… “Is that a _nozzle_?”

“Aw, _wow_. Yeah, that’s right, sweet thing. You know, that’d be such a fun game – me putting things in this, mmm, this lovely little ass of yours and you guessing what I’m shoving in there.”

“Fun,” Loki echoes, shuddering at the very _thought_. With a playful partner, undoubtedly, Loki would enjoy the wager, would enjoy the test of his own senses, but with the Grandmaster? He would put the most _unbearable_ things within him, and delight in Loki’s attempt to make sense of the torture. “This is— This is an enema, then?”

“You’ve had one before?” the Grandmaster asks, sounding the slightest bit disappointed.

“No,” Loki mutters, _despising_ that it is the truth.

“Good!” Loki opens his mouth to respond, but then there is water gushing into him, and he a tremor wracks his entire body. The sensation is indescribably strange. Firstly, the water is _hot_ – so hot that it must be steaming, but Loki’s body is hardy indeed, and although it jolts to receive such hot liquid within it, it is no worse than the Grandmaster’s cock. Secondly, the… Sensation. It is one thing to feel the pulse of a prick within him, to feel spend paint his walls, but this? This is so much more, all at once. Water seeps into Loki’s body with such alacrity that it is alarming, smoothing easily over his inner walls and filling him from within, and Loki _whines_ , gripping so tightly at the bath tub he worries the black marble might crumble beneath his touch. He feels his back arch, feels his weak knees _quake_ , and the water does not stop.

No, no, it continues to gush within him, filling him so completely that Loki cannot help the breathless noises that escape his panting mouth, and he resists the urge to press his face against his upper arm, because if he does, his make-up will be smeared by the touch. “Aw, that’s… That’s really something.” Loki heaves in a gasp as the Grandmaster’s fingers trace the length of his curved spine, and still, _still_ , the water is piped inside him! Will it never _end_? “You, huh, honey… You just take it like a champ.”

“Thank you, Grandmaster,” Loki says reedily, ashamed of the weakness of his own voice. The heat of the water, and the _heaviness_ , is bordering on the line between uncomfortable and _painful_ , and then the water seems to speed its press within him, furthering its descent into Loki’s bowels, and Loki feels his body cramp in protest. He groans at the pain, as his desperate, fervent muscles are pressed to breaking point, and he feels the need to release this weight somewhere – but to whence?

The nozzle of the enema bag keeps him carefully plugged, meaning not even the slightest bit of liquid is able to escape him. He feels that he will _burst_ , that he will split into pieces, but he doesn’t, no… No, instead, his innards give way. They let themselves be filled by this marauding flood, and Loki can feel the absurd, the obscene, _stretch_ of his belly as the water weights it down.

The Grandmaster’s hand slips beneath Loki’s body, and Loki can only manage a gasp as protest when his fingers play over the unmistakeably round _curve_ to Loki’s belly, and Loki clenches his eyes tightly shut.

“You’ve been pregnant before, right?” the Grandmaster asks softly, and Loki grunts as he begins to massage Loki’s swollen belly in easy, counter-clockwise motions – it barely soothes his cramping muscles, but proves to relax him enough that yet more awful liquid can insinuate itself within him. “How does his compare?”

“It doesn’t,” Loki mutters between clenched teeth. “That felt _natural_. This is anything but.”

“Aw, I think I’ll get you to change your tune on that one before the, uh, before the night is out.” The fear bursts anew, blooming within him like a toxic flower, but then the Grandmaster’s tongue is slipping over Loki’s slit, and Loki _wails_. When had he become aroused? When had wetness begun to gather at the entrance of his quim, thick and slick and _open_?

The Grandmaster laps at the entrance there, and the conflicting sensations drive Loki wild: the painful cramps of his belly, the desperate clench of his pucker around the enema pipe, the awful, _gentle_ touch of the Grandmaster’s hand against his swollen belly, and now his _tongue_ , bringing glorious ecstasy amidst pain and discomfort.

The water stops. Loki could cry with the relief ( _You’d better not cry._ ) at the wonderful _cease_ of it, and then the Grandmaster draws the nozzle out all at once, too-fast, too-fast, burning and he’ll _leak_ … But the Grandmaster plugs him up just as fast, a plug that seats itself much too easily inside Loki’s body, its flared base keeping the awful water within him.

“On your back,” the Grandmaster says. “On the floor.”

Slowly, shakily, Loki slides down to his knees, and moving? Moving is the most unbearable thing he’s ever felt. The swell to his belly offsets his centre of balance, and he can feel the awful _weight_ of the water within him, feel it slosh and shift inside his innards, and he whimpers as he drops heavily onto his back. His belly gives a jolt like an over-filled balloon, a sick, liquid movement assailing the surface of the taut skin, and Loki whines.

“Aw, that’s just… Mmm, isn’t that just a sight for sore eyes?” the Grandmaster asks in a purr, and his hands slide over Loki’s spread thighs, his gaze roving over Loki’s body. “That’s— Aw, honey, kitten, _Loki_ … That’s beautiful.” The Grandmaster sets both of his hands on Loki’s belly, _pressing_ against the taut skin and making Loki squirm beneath him, feeling the water shift in desperate need of somewhere else to _go_ , and finding nowhere. “I’m gonna fuck you, okay?”

“Grandmaster,” Loki whines, disgusted by the desperation in his voice, and the Grandmaster shushes him like he’s little more than a frightened animal – and really, isn’t that what he _must_ be, in the Grandmaster’s ancient eyes?

“It’s okay, Lo-Lo,” he says soothingly, shifting closer, between Loki’s legs, and Loki wishes he could get away, wishes he could move at _all_ with the awful weight of his own belly pinning him on his back, and he stares down at its curve, ashamed at the _heat_ within him. His cock, swollen and erect, is pressed right against the swell of his own belly, and whenever it jerks or jolts, it serves only to press its little head against Loki’s own _skin_. “It’s okay, it’s okay… I’m gonna, ha, I’m gonna make it all better.” The Grandmaster’s cock lines up against Loki’s entrance, and Loki feels his own cunt _clench_ , as if inviting him in, but no, no, Loki is so full already, he can’t possibly—

The Grandmaster fucks inside him in one slick, easy movement, and the water within Loki is displaced. Loki _screams_ , his eyes closing tightly as he arches his back uselessly, unable to lift his own belly from the floor, and he feels the heat of the Grandmaster’s length within him, feels his own innards shift and cramp _even further_ with the additional intrusion.

“I don’t— _ungh_. I don’t see how this is getting me clean,” Loki mumbles, and the Grandmaster laughs, beginning to thrust his hips in long, measured movements, obviously intended to make Loki’s belly shift and _slosh_ as much as possible. Loki imagines he can even hear it, hear the liquid within him—

“Well, sometimes you gotta get a little, ha, a little dirty before you can get clean, sunshine,” the Grandmaster replies, and Loki feels the ugly, creeping heat of humiliation, of true debasement, on his every inch of skin. He wishes he could crawl out of his very flesh, but he cannot: he can only spread his thighs slightly wider, encourage the Grandmaster further within him—

“Please,” Loki whispers, and he hates himself for it, but the Grandmaster _smiles_ , and rewards him. One hand begins to massage Loki’s swollen, taut belly once more, pushing it up slightly, and his index finger and his thumb take hold of Loki’s straining cock, rolling it between the two. Loki _keens_ , feeling himself _come_.

When had that gathered within him, that awful tangle of tightened muscles, that gathering of tension? It matters not: it all releases at once, Loki’s cunt clenching senselessly around the Grandmaster’s cock, and Loki is left writhing, no longer entirely aware of his very _thoughts_ – he is grounded in physicality, and for a few seconds he is free from the awareness of it all, knows only the Grandmaster’s hands and his cock and the weight of his own body—

The Grandmaster’s spend is nothing like the weight of the enema. It paints hot at Loki’s inner walls, and Loki feels so _dizzy_ , feels like he might melt into wetness, mingling with the filthy water inside him.

The Grandmaster lifts him like he weighs nothing at all, and the release of the water is the most relaxing thing Loki has ever experienced, leaving him languid and much like liquid in the Grandmaster’s arms, unable to do anything but _cling_ to him, else surely he shall fall to the ground—

“And you didn’t even cry,” the Grandmaster murmurs, his tone singing with praise, and Loki sighs as the Grandmaster’s knuckles brush against his chin. “So _pretty_.” Loki is too insensate to protest, even _inwardly_.

“For you,” he mumbles, and he leans into the hand that weaves into his hair. “What did I… What must I be cleaned for?”

“Aw, _honey_ ,” the Grandmaster purrs. “For the party.”

“The party,” Loki repeats dully, not really comprehending. “Of course. Please kiss me.” The Grandmaster chuckles, and he licks his way into Loki’s mouth, his breath as incandescently hot as the stars, and Loki leans into it, convinces himself, for a _second_ , that this is what he wants. His every inch of skin feels like so much melted ice, and he wishes this sensation would last forever, this wonderful languidness of his limbs.

“Can’t wait to, ha, see everybody take you apart,” the Grandmaster whispers. “You can’t ruin the make-up yet, of course, but later, when you cry for the pain… Gee, aren’t you, ha, aren’t you gonna look pretty with your mascara running?”

The illusion of contentment shatters like glass, but Loki is too relaxed to so much as stiffen. “Yes,” he agrees, his tone achingly casual, and the Grandmaster’s laugh rushes over his skin like water.

**Author's Note:**

> ANYWAY. Hit me up for requests on [Tumblr.](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/)


End file.
